


The Lights of Lestallum

by Sauronix



Series: The Lights of Lestallum [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Post Chapter 13, Reading to Each Other, Revised Version, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: In the absence of sight, the physical means less than it used to. His other senses tell him what he needs to know of the world. Take Gladio, for instance. The months of darkness have dulled Ignis’s memory of his face. The harder he tries to summon the image to his mind, the more indistinct it becomes, like trying to make out one’s features in a fogged-up mirror.Sometimes Ignis forgets the details. Gladio helps him remember.

(REVISED! Now with 20% more words!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> REVISED AUGUST 11, 2018: More than a year after its original publication, I've chosen to revise this fic to include elements from Episode Ignis and bring it more in line with my original vision for it. In addition to edits, I have added 1,500+ words to the text.
> 
> Major revisions to [The Darkest Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119035) and [Sunrise Over Insomnia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970147) will follow.

They live in a cramped two-bedroom apartment above a junk shop in Lestallum.  
  
All things considered, they’re lucky they got even that. In the ten months since Noct disappeared into the crystal, it seems like half the world has migrated here. The apartment next door is home to two families of four; across the way, a family of seven. The Leville no longer caters to tourists, but rather refugees. And with nowhere else to go, some people make their way on the street. A young homeless couple has staked their territory in the alley behind the junk shop, always sitting on the curb just outside their door. They never ask Ignis for money when he ventures out. Maybe they think begging from the disabled is a step too far. But sometimes Prompto gives them a few gil, and Gladio makes them peanut butter sandwiches in their tiny kitchen.  
  
Gladio tells him the front window overlooks the vistas to the south, that despite its small size, their home is clean and cozy. Ignis can’t see it, but he’s come to know it by touch. His bedroom is nine steps from the front door. Fifteen from the kitchen. Three from the bathroom. There’s a hole in the drywall next to the shower stall, just under the light switch. When it rains, the water drips through the ceiling above the stove.  
  
“Cheap fuckin’ landlords, man,” Gladio always mutters as he empties the bucket they use to catch the leak.  
  
None of them are quite sure what to do with themselves now that Noct is gone. Prompto hunts. Gladio teaches self-defense classes at the kickboxing gym down the street, squaring away a few hours every week to train with Ignis. And Ignis spends much of his time in the kitchen, re-learning how to cook using touch and smell and taste alone. Sometimes Iris comes to help him, but even though she measures out the ingredients just the way he tells her, none of his recipes taste the same as they used to.  
  
His days feel curiously empty. Curiously wasted. There are no meetings to attend. No battle strategies to prepare. No prince to advise. And he doesn’t yet have the confidence to hunt. His many skills are useless in this new world—in his new reality. Without Noctis, without his sight, he’s lost, and he can’t shake the sense that there’s something he should be doing, something to save Noct from the future Pryna showed him.  
  
At least all this freedom has given him time to inure himself to his blindness. There’s no sense in getting angry; why rail against something that can’t be changed? He’s already shed enough tears over his lost vision, over the ghostly magic that burned out his sight. Still, there are moments of despair, where he lies for hours on the sofa, wondering how he’s going to live the rest of his life this way. Wondering if he’ll ever stop waking from nightmares—nightmares of Noct dying, impaled by a dozen blades, and Ignis powerless to save him—drenched in sweat, his heart thundering in his chest, as his dead eyes stare into the void.  
  
For him, the light will never return. His conscious mind has already accepted this; his body has not. At this rate, he doesn’t know if it ever will.  
  
Despite everything they’ve lost, they’ve managed to carve out a life for themselves here. They don’t have many possessions. When they first moved in, Gladio and Prompto pushed a sofa and a bookshelf into the living room, hauled a mattress onto the floor of each bedroom. But besides that, they live out of suitcases. Prompto sleeps on the couch, mostly because it’s too small for Gladio, and no one wants to inconvenience a blind man.  
  
But they’re all comfortable with the arrangement. Prompto spends more and more time away from Lestallum now, anyway. He says it’s because he’s hunting. Ignis suspects, rather, that it’s because he’s in Hammerhead.  
  
“Guess it’s just us tonight,” Gladio drawls one evening, after Prompto has gone. The window creaks as he opens it, letting humid summer air into the already stifling room. With it come the sounds of the city—the honking of horns, a distant siren, a peal of laughter in the street below. Life goes on in Lestallum, even as the world around it crumbles. “What do you want to do, Iggy?”  
  
Ignis considers for a moment. He’s afraid he isn’t much fun these days. Gladio would rather be at the bar, he’s certain, or in bed with a woman, or even out hunting daemons. But Gladio always stays by his side when Prompto isn’t around, no matter how many times Ignis tells him to go and live his life. He’s lost count of how many times Gladio has tried to convince him to come out for drinks, citing Ignis’s physical needs as his motive.  
  
“When was the last time you got your dick wet, Iggy?” he’ll say as he nudges Ignis’s shoulder. “C’mon. You should meet new people. It’ll be good for you.”  
  
He always declines, mostly because the only place he wants to “get his dick wet”, as Gladio so crassly puts it, is in Gladio’s mouth.  
  
“I can make do on my own, Gladio,” he says now, as he always does. “You don’t have to stay in for my sake.”  
  
“I’m not.” Gladio’s footsteps pad into the kitchen. The refrigerator opens and glass clinks on glass. Then the footsteps return, and Gladio pushes a cold, sweating bottle into his hand. “Altissia Pale Ale. The last two in the city. Picked ‘em up today at the corner store.”  
  
Ignis has never been a beer drinker. He’s always preferred wines or a gin and tonic. But in the sweltering night, he’s begun to perspire under his arms, down his back, and on his upper lip, so he accepts the drink without argument.  
  
“I could read to you,” Gladio says, his voice now coming from somewhere near the bookshelf. Ignis imagines him standing there, his fingers trailing over leather-bound spines, perhaps pausing on _The Legend of Gilgamesh_. Their collection is small. They’ve snapped up all the titles they could find—volumes of history and geography, compendiums of religion and myth, even the two-gil paperback bodice-rippers Gladio finds so amusing. But in a world overrun by daemons, no one thinks to stock their shop with books.  
  
So they make do with what they have, the two of them. They’ve read a few of the texts perhaps a dozen times. Ignis already knows some of the passages by heart. But when Gladio brings the words to life with his voice, it’s like he’s hearing them for the first time.  
  
“How ‘bout _Ravished by the Myrlwood Marquis_?” Gladio says.  
  
“Gladio.”  
  
“Maybe _A Lover in Leide_?”  
  
Ignis sighs and leans back against the couch cushions. Gladio has never actually read any of these books to him, thank the Six, but he wonders if Gladio’s collection of romance novels might not be more extensive than he lets on.  
  
Gladio laughs. “I’m just bullshitting, Iggy. Go on. Pick something.”  
  
“Perhaps _Flaviana’s Song_ ,” Ignis suggests. He takes a sip from the beer Gladio brought him and holds back a grimace. “We haven’t read that one in quite some time.”  
  
“ _Flaviana’s Song_. You and your poetry. How many times have you asked for that one now? Fifty?”  
  
“Hardly. But if you’d rather choose something else, by all means.”  
  
“I’m teasing. I’ll read whatever you want.” There’s a beat of silence, and then the slide of paper on wood. “Got it.”  
  
The couch dips as Gladio sits on it, and a whiff of leather and lemongrass soap follows him. Neither quite veils the musk of his sweat. Almost unconsciously, Ignis breathes deep, holding the scent of him in his nostrils. In the days before his injury, he noticed that scent only in passing. Now, it’s comforting, a familiar anchor in his world of darkness, his reassurance that Gladio is near.  
  
“All right,” Gladio says, his voice accompanied by the rustle of pages. “We’ve got chapter three bookmarked. You want me to skip to there, or should I just start at the beginning?”    
  
Ignis smiles. “The beginning will do.”  
  
The pages turn. Gladio clears his throat and starts to read the prologue. “‘From the heights of the rock rose a fortress dark, with a lord whose heart was darker. At the window there perched a maiden fair with the name of Flaviana. With valour she’d fought, but ’twas all for naught—his power surpassed her own.’” He chuckles. “I forgot how shitty this poem is.”  
  
Ignis clicks his tongue in exasperation. “Gladio.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
  
Gladio pauses to take a sip of his beer, shifting his legs, and their feet meet on the couch. Ignis doesn’t draw his away. Instead, he goes entirely still, his heart skipping, and waits for Gladio to notice. But Gladio doesn’t move his foot away, either. He simply curls his toes against the arch of Ignis’s foot and leaves them there.  
  
Ignis hardly dares breathe.  
  
In the absence of sight, the physical means less than it used to. His other senses tell him what he needs to know of the world. Take Gladio, for instance. The months of darkness have dulled Ignis’s memory of his face. The harder he tries to summon the image to his mind, the more indistinct it becomes, like trying to make out one’s features in a fogged-up mirror.  
  
Now, it’s the sound of Gladio’s voice, as rough as tires rolling over gravel, that paints a picture of the man. It’s the smell of him—of strawberry shampoo and woody aftershave and mint toothpaste. The brush of his fingers as he hands Ignis a teacup on a Sunday morning. The heat of his body when he stands too close.  
  
Much closer than he ever did before.  
  
He tells himself there’s nothing unusual about his preoccupation with Gladio. There are likely very few people who haven’t thought about putting their hands on him, and it’s been so long since Ignis has been with another that his body hungers for intimacy. He projects his desires onto Gladio because Gladio is the one he trusts most. Gladio is the only one who has been by his side through everything. The only touch he’s had since Altissia is Gladio’s hand on his arm or the small of his back, gently guiding him.  
  
“Hey.” Gladio digs his toe into Ignis’s foot. “You awake over there?”  
  
“Yes. I’m listening.”  
  
“Good. This shit’s killing me.”  
  
Ignis sighs. “You can read another if you’d like.”  
  
“Nah. I don’t mind suffering for your sake.”  
  
He says it casually, but Ignis’s stomach somersaults all the same. This isn’t the first time Gladio has said such things to him. He used to lie awake late into the night, replaying the words in his head, exhausting himself with endless analyses of their meaning. Often, he’s wished he could see again if only to gauge Gladio’s intentions by his body language. But he doesn’t take it seriously anymore. Gladio flirts with everyone. It’s just the way he is.  
  
Gladio starts to read again— _The sun in the sky shone down on Duscae, painting the grasses in gold_ —and Ignis settles into the cushions, letting the words build the scene in his mind. The poetry is simple enough, and the rhymes amateurish, but it isn’t the story of Flaviana that moves him. Rather, it’s the epic scope of the poem, and the settings it describes, that keep him captivated. It adds colour to his memories of the places he’s been—places like Duscae and Accordo, which live for the others in Prompto’s photographs, but not for him.  
  
He lets himself be lulled by Gladio’s voice, and dreams of all the places he’ll never see again.  
 

  
*

  
He wakes later to a quiet apartment. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, has no idea what time it is. A blanket covers him where he lies on the sofa; Gladio must have draped it over him when he fell asleep.  
  
“Gladio?” he calls out, and silence answers.  
  
Maybe he’s gone out after all. Maybe he’ll come home later reeking of cigarette smoke and stale perfume, and Ignis won’t have to wonder where he’s been. Though perhaps not knowing would be easier. The thought of Gladio in someone else’s arms churns his guts.  
  
With a groan, he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. A cup of tea would be just the thing. He feels his way to the kitchen, one hand on the wall, to brew himself a pot. After all this time, he doesn’t really need the guidance. Gladio is always careful to leave everything exactly where it belongs, to unclutter all the pathways Ignis might take through their little apartment. But he follows the wall anyway, just in case Prompto has left his shoes or duffel bag lying around.  
  
Just as the kettle starts to whistle, he hears the key turning in the lock, and then the door whispers open. Ignis smells Gladio before he has the chance to speak—the sharp scent of sweat, and under it, the citrusy zest of his deodorant.  
  
“Hey,” Gladio says, surprised. The door closes, the deadbolt slides into place, and heavy footsteps enter the kitchen behind him. “You’re awake.”  
  
“So I am.” Ignis feels along the counter for his cup and drops a tea bag into it. “How long was I asleep?”  
  
“Hmm.” The air next to him moves as Gladio opens the cupboard and pulls down a glass, and that scent envelops him. Gods help him, it makes his knees weak. “Maybe an hour. I went for a jog. Figured you’d be out for the night.”  
  
Water hisses from the tap as Ignis asks, “What time is it?”  
  
“Just after eleven,” Gladio says. Ignis hears him swallow twice, and then the glass clinks against the countertop. “You okay? You look like you have something on your mind.”  
  
“I do?”  
  
“You were barely listening when I was reading to you. You seem like you’re on some other planet.”  
  
Ignis shakes his head and blows on his tea. “I suppose I have been a little preoccupied.”  
  
“You wanna talk about it?”  
  
What can he say? He doesn’t want to burden Gladio with his worries. He’s enough of a burden as it is. Gladio’s the one who pays the bills, who cleans their apartment, who runs the errands and ensures Ignis wants for nothing. There’s no good reason he should be Ignis’s emotional crutch as well.  
  
“Iggy,” Gladio says, placing a gentle hand on his upper arm. Even that innocent touch sends a flush of desire through Ignis’s entire body. “Don’t clam up on me. You can’t keep everything bottled up all the time.”  
  
“Not all of us share your fickle grasp on your emotions, Gladio,” he says, striving to keep his tone light.  
  
“I just want to help you,” Gladio says seriously.  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be dismissive.” Ignis takes a sip of his tea, then sets it aside, biting his lower lip. He might as well open up. What harm could it do? And gods know Gladio won’t let it go until he’s wrested the truth out of Ignis. “Do you know why I asked you to read _Flaviana’s Song_ to me?”  
  
“Uh, ‘cause you like it?”  
  
Ignis shakes his head. “You know I’m not a poetry reader, Gladio, nor do I delight in fiction. I have always read books of history, law, and politics—books that can help me better understand the world we live in. Surely you’ve noticed that after all these years?”  
  
Gladio grunts. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”  
  
“ _Flaviana’s Song_ sounds like it was written by a college freshman with misguided aspirations of greatness,” Ignis says. “I don’t care for the story. I don’t care for the verse. I asked you to read it to me because it reminds me of our travels together. Of the places we saw after we left Insomnia.”  
  
“How does shitty poetry remind you of that?”  
  
“I can’t remember what those places look like,” Ignis says. He folds his arms and leans back against the counter. “You have Prompto’s photographs. I have nothing but my memory. And I find it’s failing me as the months go by.”  
  
“Failing you?”  
  
“The details are no longer clear and my memory can’t fill in the blanks.” Ignis pauses, weighing his next words. How much of his heart does he want to reveal to Gladio? “Now that Noct is in the crystal, not having those memories makes things…very difficult.”  
  
Gladio makes a small sound, but Ignis can’t tell whether he’s agreeing or merely acknowledging him. “Which places are we talking about?”  
  
“The Vesperpool. The Myrlwood. All those nights we spent camping there.” Ignis smiles, caught between fondness and sorrow. “Do you remember that enormous fish Noct caught?”  
  
“Yeah. Remember how it tasted, too. You fried it with oranges.”  
  
“So I did.”  
  
Gladio sighs. The counter creaks as he leans on it, so close that Ignis feels the warmth of his body all up and down his left side. “So because _Flaviana’s Song_ is set in those places, the words paint a picture in your head. Is that what you’re saying?”  
  
Ignis nods. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”  
  
“Iggy, I get it. I really do. But you’re worrying about nothing. We only spent a few nights there. Even I don’t remember much about them.”  
  
“It’s not just that,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“I’m starting to forget what you look like,” he says, his voice breaking.  
  
There’s a heavy silence. Immediately, Ignis regrets saying anything. After all, it isn’t just Gladio whose face has faded; it’s Noct, and Prompto, and Iris, and Cid, and all the other people they met along their journey, too. But after Noct, his dimming memories of Gladio hurt the most. How often has he wished to look into those sunset eyes just one more time? To see a smile curve those full lips? Far too often to deny how much Gladio has come to mean to him. And in realizing his affection, he’s forgotten that Gladio may not share his sentiments.  
  
He's about to apologize when Gladio takes Ignis’s hand and places it on his cheek. Ignis sucks in a breath as his fingertips meet a prickle of beard and warm, supple skin.  
  
“Go on,” Gladio says. Ignis feels the rumble of his voice as much as he hears it. “Remind yourself.”  
  
Gladio’s sudden proximity makes his face goes hot, but Ignis accepts the invitation. Cautiously, he leads his thumb over the curve of Gladio’s cheekbone. He traces the raised line of scar tissue that cuts across his eye, then maps the slope of his nose, walking his fingers over the small bump near the bridge of it where Gladio broke it in a bar fight. As he does it, Gladio’s face comes alive in his mind. He can almost see Gladio’s honey-coloured eyes gazing at him, one heavy eyebrow rising in amusement.  
  
He pauses when he reaches the soft, dry bow of Gladio’s lips, letting his touch linger there.  
  
“That jog your memory?” Gladio asks against his fingertips.  
  
Ignis doesn’t answer. This is the most he’s touched anyone in months. He’s hyper-aware of how close Gladio is standing, so close he can smell—almost taste—the hoppy beer on his breath.  
  
“Ignis?” Gladio says softly.  
  
There’s a tension in the space between them, something magnetic and arcane and irresistible. It’s begging him to close the small distance separating their bodies. The possibility that Gladio returns his feelings—that he’d welcome Ignis’s embrace—seems less remote now. Surely he must feel the pull between them too. Ignis strokes Gladio’s lower lip with his thumb, marvelling at its softness.  
  
“You have such a lovely mouth,” he breathes.  
  
There’s a beat of silence, and then Gladio says, “Iggy…”  
  
Gladio takes his wrist and gently peels his hand away. But before Ignis has the opportunity to be disappointed, Gladio cups his cheek in return, his thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone. Ignis’s lips part in surprise, Gladio’s gentle touch spurring his heartbeat, and for once, he chooses to listen to that whisper of hope inside of him.  
  
“May I kiss you?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio steps closer, his presence caging him against the edge of the counter. “Fuck, yeah.”  
  
A shiver of desire goes through Ignis. He hasn’t been physical with someone since before he lost his sight, but his body still knows what to do. He doesn’t need to see Gladio to find his mouth in the darkness, to run a hand hungrily over the firm muscles of his chest, thumbing a stiff nipple as he goes. The tank top Gladio wears is damp with sweat. It clings to every part of his sculpted body, reminding Ignis that he’s hard all over. Somehow, Gladio has gotten between his legs, and the generous ridge of his erection grinds against Ignis’s thigh. Ignis can feel the heat of it through his pants.  
  
Ignis breaks the kiss. “Perhaps we should—”  
  
“Slow down?” Gladio’s voice speaks next to his ear, even as his weight draws away, unpinning Ignis from the edge of the counter. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  
  
Ignis swallows hard, steadying his own voice before he speaks. The last thing he wants is for Gladio to stop. “I was going to suggest we take this to your bedroom.”  
  
Gladio’s breath hitches, and then a strong hand takes him by the back of the neck, guiding him into another kiss. Helplessly, Ignis opens his mouth to Gladio’s tongue. It slides against his own, hot and inquisitive, but never forceful. Despite all that power in his body, Gladio is always gentle with him, in everything.  
  
With his hands on Ignis’s hips, Gladio starts to walk him backward down the hall, toward his bedroom. Ignis lets Gladio steer him, his arms circling Gladio’s broad shoulders. He’s too preoccupied with the taste of Gladio’s mouth to worry about running into a wall or tripping over the loose floorboard outside Gladio’s door.  
  
They tumble onto the mattress together. Gladio goes down first, pulling Ignis on top of him, spreading his legs so Ignis can fit comfortably between them.  
  
“Wasn’t expecting this to happen when we moved in together,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of Ignis’s ear, making him shiver again. “Kinda hoped it would, though.”  
  
Ignis reaches out to touch him and finds that Gladio has tucked an arm behind his head. He trails a finger along Gladio’s bicep, memorizing the tracery of raised veins on hard curves of muscle, and then strokes the soft hair in Gladio’s armpit. He can’t forget that this is a man under him. He doesn’t want to pretend otherwise, either.  
  
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Gladio says.  
  
“I’m admiring,” Ignis corrects him.  
  
Gladio laughs. Nimbly, his hands start to tug open the buttons of Ignis’s shirt. “So am I.” The hands push the shirt off his shoulders, leaving him bare to the humid room. “You’re easy on the eyes.”  
  
“If only I could appreciate you that way, too,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
Gladio’s warm palm slides up his flank. “You can appreciate me in other ways.”  
  
“It isn’t the same.”  
  
Gladio pulls Ignis down on the bed next to him. Those arms go around him, enfolding him in the heat of Gladio’s body, and they kiss again, languid and unhurried. Flushed with desire, Ignis tangles his fingers in Gladio’s hair. His mouth opens under Gladio’s, and Gladio explores it with his tongue while his hand explores Ignis’s body, gliding down over his chest and abdomen until it reaches the fly of his slacks.  
  
His breath hitches when Gladio’s fingers pop the button. Then, slowly, as if he’s handling a wild animal, Gladio tugs down the zipper. When Ignis doesn’t stop him, Gladio’s hand slips inside and cups him through his underwear. He’s already achingly hard. He can feel the throb of his pulse between his legs, against Gladio’s huge, warm hand.  
  
Gladio kisses his throat. “That okay?”  
  
“Yes.” He lets out a soft moan when Gladio’s thumb grazes the head of his arousal. It isn’t enough. Not nearly. “More than okay.”  
  
“You want me to keep going?”  
  
Ignis nods, seeking Gladio’s mouth again. As they kiss, Gladio palms him through the cotton, his grip firm, but not rough. Ignis puts a hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles move under the skin as Gladio’s hand works him. That’s almost more erotic than the act itself. Emboldened, he spreads his legs a little wider and takes Gladio’s hand, guiding it into his underwear. It closes around his length without further prompting.  
  
“Shit,” Gladio breathes. He gives Ignis a perfunctory stroke. The calluses on his palm light up every nerve in Ignis’s body. “We can’t go back from this, Iggy.”  
  
“I know.” He licks his dry lips. His pulse hammers in his throat. He feels drunk on Gladio’s touch, his hips rocking into his fist. “I don’t care.”  
  
“Can I suck your cock?”  
  
Ignis moans raggedly, and that’s all the permission, it seems, that Gladio needs. He tugs at Ignis’s pants, dragging him halfway down the bed as he jerks the fabric to his knees.  
  
Then Gladio’s mouth engulfs him whole, and his entire world narrows to that glorious wet heat. Unbidden, a low moan escapes him. Without his sight, every sensation is more intense—the sweet drag of Gladio’s lips up his length, the swirl of that velvety tongue around the head, Gladio’s hand cupping his balls and squeezing gently. Gladio’s technique is practiced. At least, it feels that way to Ignis. This can’t be the first time he’s done this sort of thing.  
  
Ignis takes a fistful of Gladio’s hair and jerks his hips up, desperate for more, but Gladio’s palms push against his thighs to hold him down. That mouth works him at its own lazy pace, torturing him. Gladio’s tongue coasts up the underside of his shaft, teasing the sensitive skin there, even as the pad of Gladio’s finger kneads the space between his balls and his hole.  
  
He won’t last. It’s been too long since someone has touched him like this. He’s already perched on the edge, his toes curling in anticipation, his thighs quivering under Gladio’s hands.  
  
When Gladio’s lips finally coax his orgasm from him, it comes over him like a cresting wave. He makes a choked sound, his whole body tensing, then trembling, as he releases into Gladio’s mouth. He can’t say for sure whether Gladio swallows. But Gladio’s mouth is empty when he abandons his shaft, moving up to kiss him, letting Ignis taste himself on Gladio’s lips.  
  
“Fuck, Ignis,” Gladio growls.  
  
There’s the clank of his belt as it opens, the rustle of fabric, and then the telltale slap of skin as Gladio starts to stroke himself. Ignis reaches out to touch him, but Gladio forces his hand back down to the pillow, twining their fingers together. A feverish mouth descends on his again. Gladio kisses him hard, his teeth tugging at his lower lip with an animalism that excites Ignis no less than his gentle touches.  
  
Squeezing the hand that holds his own, Ignis kisses him back, burying his fingers in Gladio’s thick hair. He can smell Gladio’s sex and his sweat, can feel the mattress shaking as Gladio gathers speed in pleasuring himself. As much as he wishes to touch Gladio, to be the one to bring him to completion, he likes this as well. He likes it a great deal when Gladio groans into Ignis’s mouth, and his come spurts in hot, wet ropes onto Ignis’s abdomen.  
  
They lie side by side after, both breathing heavily, Ignis with his pants still trapped around his knees. Gladio’s spend drips down his ribs, warm and viscous. Ignis catches it in one hand before it can spill on the sheet under him.  
  
“Shit. Hold on, Iggy.” The mattress dips next to Ignis, and then Gladio nudges his hand aside, mopping up the mess with a bundle of fabric that could be a shirt. “There you go.”  
  
Ignis kicks his pants off and pulls the sheet over himself. It smells of Gladio—of his sweat, his shampoo, his come. Now that Ignis knows that particular blend of scents, he doesn’t think he can ever forget it. Next to him, Gladio settles down on the bed, the heat of his skin pressing up against Ignis’s arm.  
  
“So…” Gladio’s places a hand on his waist under the sheet, tentatively, the sudden touch making Ignis start. “Was that, uh…was that okay?”  
  
Ignis nods, smiling, moving his head a hair closer on the pillow. “I enjoyed it very much.”  
  
“Good.” Gladio laughs softly. “So did I.”  
  
They both lapse into silence. Gladio’s fingertips travel up and down his side, restless and feather-light, as their heads meet on the pillow. Ignis wonders if Gladio will hold him. He wonders if their sexual chemistry will translate to intimacy, or whether their coupling was merely a convenient outlet for Gladio’s physical needs, never to be repeated again. Against his better judgement, Ignis hopes for the former, knowing Gladio has always been liberal with his body, but not necessarily his heart. He would sleep more soundly in Gladio’s arms, enveloped in the scent of his skin.  
  
But this isn’t one of Gladio’s romance novels. They aren’t lovers, at least not yet. They’re just two friends sharing comfort—even if Ignis wants more. So much more.  
  
Soft lips press against his own, but when Ignis tries to deepen the kiss, Gladio draws away. “I should shower, Iggy. I’m still sweaty from that run.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” Ignis murmurs.  
  
“Yeah, but I do. Don’t wanna stink up the sheets too much.” Gladio kisses his nose before brushing their mouths together again. It’s too brief an embrace, too chaste, when all Ignis craves is Gladio’s tongue. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Promise.”  
  
“Should I go back to my own room?”  
  
“No. I want you to stay.”  
  
The mattress tilts as Gladio clambers off of it, his belt clanking, perhaps as he pulls up his pants. Curled up under the covers, Ignis listens as he shuffles around the room, then pads down the hallway and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The pipes rattle and groan, followed by the patter of water in the bathtub. They’re comforting sounds, the sounds he has long associated with domesticity. Although he is alone in the darkness, Gladio is never far away.  
  
Ignis closes his eyes, listening to his off-key humming in the shower, and he drifts.

  
   
*

  
The shrill, insistent beeping of his alarm wakes him at seven in the morning. Blearily, he swipes his phone to shut it off, then lays back on the pillow. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. So quiet he can hear the drip of the tap in the kitchen. He’s still in Gladio’s bed; he can tell because Gladio’s scent surrounds him, lingering in his nostrils. But when he reaches out a hand, he finds the mattress beside him empty and cold.  
  
He pulls on his clothes and feels his way to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea, only to discover Gladio isn’t even in the apartment. The elements on the stove are cold—they clearly haven’t been used this morning. There are no dishes in the sink or drying rack. Ignis puts on the kettle, his stomach churning with unease, wondering where Gladio could be.  
  
Perhaps he never returned to bed after his shower.  
  
_But why?_  
  
When the tea is ready, Ignis sits on the couch, listening to the radio as he drinks it. Lestallum has only one working station now. Most of the time, it just crackles with static noise, but every morning, noon, and night, an announcer comes on the air to read updates from hunter outposts that have been established across Lucis. There’s nothing new this morning—or at least, not much of consequence. There are no deaths to report. No disasters speak of. No water conservation advisories or warnings of daemon sightings near Lestallum. There’s only an announcement about a delayed supply truck south of the Old Lestallum blockade.  
  
Sighing, Ignis shuts off the radio and lies back on the couch, his hands laced over his eyes.  
  
Where is Gladio now?  
  
Is he safe?  
  
Why didn’t he spend the night with Ignis, like he said he would?  
  
He rubs his eyes and tries not to worry too much. Perhaps Gladio went on a hunt and didn’t want to wake Ignis. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s departed at a moment’s notice, or without any notice at all, though such occasions are rare. He never leaves Ignis alone if he can help it, no matter how often Ignis tells him he can manage on his own.  
  
Another explanation is that he’s had second thoughts about their relationship—or rather, what their relationship has become, after the things they did together in his bed. If that’s the case, Ignis can hardly fault him for it. Gladio never promised him anything. Gladio never said he had feelings for Ignis. All the same, the notion of Gladio regretting last night, and deciding to sleep somewhere else…well, it stings.  
  
Rather than dwell on it, he spends the day puttering around the apartment. He does his exercises—pushups, crunches, squats, and bicep curls, enough repetitions of each that he’s dripping sweat by the time he’s finished—in the narrow space of empty floor alongside the bookshelf. For lunch, he makes himself a pot of soup from scratch, using alstrooms Gladio brought back last time he went on a hunt. He tries to call Gladio several times, only to reach his voicemail. All the while, he grows more restless.  
  
Where could Gladio be?  
  
Why hasn’t he called?  
  
Did something happen to him?  
  
The clock on their bookshelf chimes five o’clock. Then six. Then seven.  
  
Gladio returns sometime between eight and nine. Ignis starts awake when the door closes; after his shower, he’d fallen asleep on the couch with the sounds of the city drifting up through the open window.  
  
“Gladio,” Ignis says groggily, pushing the blanket off as he struggles to a sitting position. “Is everything all right?”  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio throws his keys on the counter and kicks his boots off just inside the front door. Ignis knows these sounds by heart now. “Sorry if I worried you. Iris picked up a lead on a hunt and asked me to help her out with it.”  
  
“Why didn’t you wake me to let me know?” Ignis can’t help the wounded accusation in his voice.  
  
“I wasn’t here,” Gladio says. “I went out to get something and ran into her in the market. She said a supply truck got swarmed by daemons near Old Lestallum, and we went to give ‘em a hand. I didn’t have time to come back to the apartment first.”  
  
“You could have called.” He knows better than to say _You could have taken me with you_. They’ve had that discussion too many times to count.  
  
“Iggy, I tried,” Gladio says placatingly, his footsteps padding toward Ignis. “I couldn’t get a signal.”  
  
Ignis nods, relenting. There’s truth enough in that. The cell towers have become more difficult to maintain with the growth of daemon populations. Although hunter groups regularly clear out nests to make a safe path for technicians, the mobile network near Lestallum is but a shadow of what it used to be. Sometimes the city has gone days without service.  
  
“I guess it was a bad time to go AWOL, huh?” Gladio murmurs.  
  
“You could say that.” Ignis swallows, shaking his head, feeling suddenly foolish. “I thought perhaps…”  
  
“You thought what?” When Ignis doesn’t answer, Gladio asks, softly, “That I didn’t like what we did?”  
  
With a sheepish smile, Ignis nods. “Something to that effect.”  
  
“I liked it, Iggy. I told you that.” The floorboards creak as Gladio moves closer, close enough that Ignis can smell him, a hint of strawberry in his hair and the musk of his sweat. “I wanted you for a long time.”  
  
Ignis’s breath catches. Of course. All the casual flirtation, the light touches on the couch, the nights Gladio spent at home, with him, rather than in someone else’s bed—they were real. A part of him has always known it, even as the other part doubted.  
  
“I went out to pick up some condoms. Spent half an hour haggling with a hunter down at the Tipsy Imp, and had to trade a few remedies to get ‘em, but…” Gladio trails off. Ignis hears a wet sound, as if he’s licking his lips, before he goes on: “I mean…I didn’t want to assume anything, but I thought…just in case.” In the ensuing silence, over the rising thunder of his own pulse, Ignis can hear the uneven cadence of Gladio’s breathing. “Shit, Iggy. Say something.”  
  
Ignis opens his mouth to speak, but words won’t come. He wants more. His desire for Gladio—for every part of Gladio, in every way—is hardly in question. The mere mention of condoms has him hard in his sweatpants. He’s just not sure what more entails. And part of him is afraid.  
  
“You ever fucked a guy before?” Gladio asks, picking up on Ignis’s hesitation.  
  
Ignis shakes his head. “I take it you have?”  
  
“Yeah, once or twice.”  
  
“So you know what you’re doing, then.”  
  
“Yeah. Mostly.”  
  
Ignis licks his lips. “And should I say yes, how will this encounter play out?”  
  
“I’ll let you fuck me, if that’s what you want.” Gladio’s soft voice makes it sound more sensual than obscene. Ignis bites his lip as his blood pulses between his legs. “I don’t wanna hurt you or make you uncomfortable. We don’t even have to do this.”  
  
“I want to,” Ignis assures him. Because he does. Oh, he does.  
  
“All right.”  
  
Gladio’s footsteps pad closer, until he’s standing right in front of Ignis. Although he can’t see him, Ignis can sense him there by the sound of his breathing and the heat radiating off his skin.  
  
“Based on your past experiences, perhaps it’s best if you take the lead,” Ignis says. For all Gladio’s talk of hurting him, he’s more afraid of hurting Gladio.  
  
“Be happy to,” Gladio murmurs.  
  
Ignis tilts his head back, offering an unspoken invitation, and Gladio kisses him, open-mouthed and greedy. Somehow, they make it back to Gladio’s bed, shedding their clothes as they go. First, Gladio’s tank, cast aside in the hallway. Next, Ignis’s t-shirt. He has his hands on Gladio’s belt when they fall into the sheets together, half-naked, arms and legs twined, devouring each other’s mouths.  
  
This time, Gladio lets him touch. Ignis runs his hands over hot skin and hard muscle, memorizing the perfect terrain of his body. There’s the scar he got in his battle with Gilgamesh, slashed across his chest. A small mole on his left side, just over his second rib. The cleft between his pectorals. The hardening bead of his nipple. Gladio grunts when he grazes it with his fingertips, teasing it fully stiff.  
  
“How would you like to do this?” Ignis asks. His hand moves downward, following the trail of hair below Gladio’s navel.  
  
Gladio chuckles. “You that eager to get down to business?”  
  
“I like to have a plan.”  
  
“I know.” Gladio’s lips press a soft kiss to his shoulder. “We should probably get out of our pants first. Won’t get much action if we don’t do that.”  
  
Impatiently, Ignis shoves his sweatpants down his hips and kicks them off. Next to him, he hears the zip of Gladio’s fly, then the heavy sound of fabric hitting the floor. When he reaches out, seeking Gladio in the darkness, his hand meets Gladio’s thick, downy thigh. He follows the line of muscle up, over the sharp curve of his hip, until his knuckles nudge against Gladio’s penis. It’s already hard, the head slick. Ignis’s breath catches in his throat.  
  
“It doesn’t bite,” Gladio says, sounding amused.  
  
Ignis laughs softly and trails his fingers up the length of it. It feels just like his own, the skin hot and smooth as silk, but this is _Gladio_ he’s touching. He circles his thumb around the head, smearing precome, and brings it to his mouth. This time, it’s Gladio’s breath that hitches. Ignis hears it as he slides his thumb between his lips, tasting him.  
  
Gladio curses under his breath, and then he’s kissing Ignis again, his tongue dipping hungrily into his mouth. Moaning, Ignis lets himself be pinned to the mattress by Gladio’s weight. It should be too much—after all, the man is at least two-hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle—but instead it feels welcome and right. Ignis puts his arms around Gladio, hands running from his shoulder blades and down his spine to cup his buttocks. Their legs tangle together as Gladio rolls his hips, his erection sliding against Ignis’s own as he begins a rhythm.  
  
Burning with need, Ignis spreads his legs wider, giving Gladio space to move. He buries one hand in Gladio’s hair, returning his kiss with equal intensity, while the other squeezes his rear, urging him on. All he can feel is the heat of Gladio’s bare skin against his own, and the steel of his arousal slipping between them. All he can smell is Gladio’s sweat. All he can taste is the faint hops on his lips.  
  
The world outside might be overrun by daemons, and his own swallowed by darkness, but right now, in Gladio’s arms, none of that matters. There’s only luminous desire.  
  
“How would you like to do this?” Ignis asks, panting, as he breaks the kiss. “Should I get on my hands and knees?”  
  
Gladio lets out a long exhale, his hand sliding up Ignis’s chest to rest just over his collarbone. “No. I want to see your face.”  
  
Ignis covers Gladio’s hand with his own. “Shall we, then?”  
  
At that, Gladio laughs. “Done with foreplay already, Iggy? You that hot for me?”  
  
Ignis nods, though in truth, he’s worried his nerves will fail him. These brief touches are enough to tell him what Gladio’s going to put inside him. As much as he wants it, he doesn’t know if he can take that girth.  
  
“All right,” Gladio says. “Give me a second.”  
  
The mattress shifts and Gladio’s heat leaves him. He hears the pop of a cap and a squirt of liquid. Lubricant. Of course. Gladio must have picked it up when he got the condoms. His heart starts to beat a little faster as Gladio returns, stretching out next to him.  
  
“Spread your legs,” he says, sliding a hand between Ignis’s thighs to nudge them apart. “And bend them a little. This’ll probably feel weird at first.”  
  
Despite the warning, Ignis starts when the pad of Gladio’s finger touches his hole, moving slowly in a teasing circle. No one has ever touched him there before. Not even himself. Not once, in all his explorations of his own body. As alien as it feels, there’s something pleasant about it, too, knowing Gladio is the first to touch him there.  
  
“That okay?” Gladio murmurs, pressing a kiss to the base of Ignis’s throat.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
But it hurts more than he thought it would when Gladio starts to push that lubricated finger into him. Ignis hisses, arching off the bed, his inner muscles clenching to reject the intrusion. Tears prick his eyes.  
  
“Gladio,” he says, his voice strained.  
  
Gladio pauses. “Maybe we should stop,” he says.  
  
After a brief hesitation, Ignis shakes his head. He wants to be as close to Gladio as two humans can be. He’ll pay the price of pain if he can just have that. “Keep going.”  
  
“Okay, but you gotta relax.” Gladio’s finger eases into him all the way to the last knuckle, and then the pain lessens, dulling to something more like discomfort. “You’re tight as fuck. Don’t know how I’m gonna get my dick in there.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Ignis says stiffly.  
  
Gladio laughs. The finger curls, and it grazes something inside him, pricking him with the strangest pleasure he’s ever felt. He lets out an involuntary cry, his hands gripping the sheets.  
  
“You like that, huh?” Gladio asks, and starts to stroke him in that spot, adding a second finger when he figures out Ignis can handle it. He keeps going, dropping kisses down the inside of Ignis’s thigh, until Ignis is panting and glistening with sweat, the sheets bunched in his fisted hands. Then his strokes slow, and he moves up to speak against Ignis’s ear. “Can I…?”  
  
“Please,” Ignis says.  
  
Gladio’s fingers withdraw. Ignis hears the tear of foil, the snap of latex as Gladio rolls the condom on, the wet slicking of lubricant, and he strokes a palm up his length in anticipation. His fears have left him. All that’s left is the primal need for their coupling. He bends his legs back willingly when Gladio settles again between then. The head of Gladio’s erection nudges between his buttocks, pushing at his entrance, more formidable than the fingers that so recently occupied that space.  
  
Gladio takes him slowly, releasing an unsteady exhale against Ignis’s neck. It’s gratifying that even after all the people Gladio has bedded, Ignis can still wring such a sound from him. All he regrets is that he can’t see Gladio’s face. The sound and smell and heat of him will have to be enough. Closing his eyes, Ignis tries to regulate his breathing, willing his trembling body to relax.  
  
“All right?” Gladio murmurs once he’s sheathed as deep as Ignis can manage.  
  
Ignis nods, biting back a moan. Gods above, the ecstasy of Gladio filling him eclipses the pain. Strong arms tuck around him, holding him close as Gladio brings their foreheads together. His breaths come shallow against Ignis’s cheek. And then he starts to move. With a slow roll of his hips, he draws out, inch by blessed inch, before he sinks back in, deeper this time, as Ignis’s body starts to open up to him. The sensation makes the hair stand up on the back of Ignis’s neck, forcing another moan out of him.  
  
He doesn’t know quite what to do at first. He’s not sure how to move to meet Gladio’s movements, nor what to do with his legs. So, for once, he doesn’t overthink it. He grips Gladio’s hip with one hand, his head thrown back on the pillow, and concentrates on the feeling of Gladio pistoning into him. The drag of that hardness inside of him, over and over, and the heavy slap of Gladio’s balls against his skin. He clenches his muscles and Gladio rewards him with a low moan, his hips jerking deeper.  
  
He loses himself in the musk of Gladio’s sweat. The graze of Gladio’s lips against his own, the heat of his tongue as it plunders his mouth. The erratic sound of his breathing, and the gallop of his heartbeat when Ignis slides a hand up his slick chest.  
  
Gladio takes that hand and guides it between them, to his own length. “Get yourself off,” he pants. “I wanna watch you come.”  
  
Ignis does as he’s asked. He strokes himself fast, with an iron grip, caught between two points of pleasure as Gladio changes his angle and the head of his shaft strikes that spot inside him again. Then again, and again, as Gladio catches on.  
  
Every muscle in his body starts to tense, his entire existence tapering to the coil of molten heat between his legs. He cries out as his orgasm rips through him, as it pulses out onto his hand. He feels it spatter onto his chest, onto his throat, and expects he’s gotten it on Gladio, too. Above him, Gladio makes a harsh, choked sound and follows, his body shuddering against Ignis as he buries himself deep with one final, brutal thrust. Weakly, his hips pump once, twice, until he pulls out and collapses into the sheets next to Ignis.  
  
They lie tangled together in silence for a moment, both breathing hard, with Gladio’s sweaty palm resting comfortably on Ignis’s chest. Ignis has no desire to move; his legs and backside are pleasantly sore, and his heart thunders as if he’s just finished running a mile.  
  
“Shit.” Gladio laughs and turns his face into Ignis’s shoulder. “You okay?”  
  
He’s more than okay. For the first time in a long time, his body feels light, buoyed by the simple fact that Gladio wanted him. He smiles and lets his head rest against Gladio’s, rubbing his cheek against the thick, damp mane of his hair. “Quite.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Ignis says, pressing a tender kiss into that hair. Hair that smells of sweat and strawberries and, faintly, of oil. That scent he loves, because it belongs to Gladio. “Quite.”

  
*

  
They walk hand in hand down the streets of Lestallum. Ignis doesn’t bring his cane; he lets Gladio lead him.  
  
The Lestallum he knows now is not the one he knew when he could see. This Lestallum smells sharper. Stronger. Layered. The alleys stink of something sweetly rancid—of too many humans packed into a space too small to accommodate them. The town square, of heady sex and sour beer. The market, of marjoram and tarragon, and of lemons and charred meat. They linger longest here. Gladio waits as Ignis runs his fingers over hollowed-out gourds and baskets of snap peas, as he trades recipes with a merchant from Accordo.  
  
After, Gladio takes him to the lookout point. Few come here now. Even for those with eyes, there’s no view to enjoy. The darkness has swallowed it all.  
  
He can’t see the lights of Lestallum, the lights that keep the daemons at bay. Still, he remembers being here with Gladio, Noct, and Prompto in better days. They sat on a bench, laughing and slurping Cup Noodles as Prompto snapped photographs. Maybe someday, they can be together like that again. And he’ll have the precious sound of Noct’s voice, if not the sight of his face. It’s the hope he clings to when the darkness seems too much to bear.  
  
But tonight, Gladio holds him in the safety of his arms as they gaze out into the void, standing together at the edge of Lestallum. It’s enough to keep the light alive inside.  
  
Gods above, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to AtropaAzraelle and AccursedSpatula for helping me through the tough spots during the revision process.
> 
> Did you enjoy this fic? Please consider leaving a kudos to let me know! Thank you so much for reading!


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